


Honey for Honey

by alltoseek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Honey, M/M, Schmoop, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For gayalondiel, who requested FIC WHERE JOHN AND/OR SHERLOCK GET HONEY UP THEIR NOSES.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey for Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayalondiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/gifts).



> warning: schmoopy crack!fic

Mycroft, having tired of waiting for the 'happy announcement', arranged for a surprise wedding for his brother and said brother's ~~flatmate~~ ~~colleague~~ ~~friend~~ ~~groom~~ ~~bride~~ unannounced fiancé.

Lestrade summoned Sherlock to a crime scene which he said seemed designed for Sherlock, and hinted at massive quantities of pink, which lit up Sherlock's whole being with excitement. John agreed to accompany him, although his entire being was shrunk in preparation for the loss of what little gains Sherlock had made in compassion lapsing in the pleasure of chasing Moriarty's 'games'.

Upon arrival, Sherlock quickly determined the crime scene, although cleverly inventive, was certainly a hoax, and hard on the heels of that conclusion was the observation that his arch-enemy was behind it, and not Moriarty, nor any of his other criminal enemies.

Pink was the dominant theme of the place: pink silk draped the walls, pink floral arrangements filled every corner, pink streamers hung from the ceiling. It was all quite hideously tasteful, if one happened to like pink.

Sherlock swirled on his heel and started to storm out the door, but was blocked by the entrance of a swarm of caterers (slightly more tastefully attired in traditional black and white, but with tasteful little pink boutonnieres, pink ribbons in their hair, or pink cummerbunds about the waist) bearing portable buffet tables and numerous platter and bowls of food and drink (of which only the punch was pink, thank God.)

Thwarted, Sherlock turned back to the room, scanning for an alternative way out, noticing that the 'corpse' - a woman dressed smartly all in pink - had risen and was smiling benignly about the crowd, which now included not only Lestrade's team and the caterers, but other acquaintances of his and John's, including Mike Stamford, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft himself ( _bastard! utter and complete - fuck, there wasn't a word evil enough - archenemy was too good for that unutterably evil smug smiling_ \-- These thoughts would get him nowhere; time to stop) and oh the Blessed Fucking Christ, _Mummy!!!_ A terrible suspicion dawned on Sherlock...

John had begun by feeling relieved at the lack of Moriarty's involvement, then moved to miffed on his own and Sherlock's behalf at being deprived of a genuine interesting crime, then horrified at his own momentary wish that the poor woman 'corpse' had actually been dead, then shifted to amusement at the prank pulled on Sherlock which John, being able to laugh at himself and take a joke, didn't mind not being in on, of course if he had been he'd have given it away inadvertently to his obsessively observant flatmate; then anger at the obvious manipulation of Sherlock and himself as the purpose of the scene became apparent.

But then John saw the Cake. It deserved the capitalisation. Clearly a wedding cake, it was like no other confection he'd ever seen. It was in the form of a beehive, including the swarm of bees encircling it, the tree it was in, the fields of flowers surrounding it. Four of the caterers had to carry it in, all moving slowly and in synchronicity as parts of it - especially the hive - appeared to wobble in a horribly alarming way.

At the sight of the Cake, John's heart melted into fondness; he could no longer even imagine a life without Sherlock, the arrogant obnoxious git, not in it; and his resentment turned to resignation. His rational mind turned to one problem only: how to convince Sherlock to go along. 

Sherlock himself had scrutinised the room, the people ('Mummy!' he despaired), and now turned to his last hope - his only potential ally - John. To see John _smiling_ at him. But not just any smile - it was that smile John wore whenever Sherlock had been brilliant in a particularly wonderful way, when John seemed more than impressed with him, more than accepting of his flaws as long as he produced these feats of deduction, but more than merely fond, but not exactly in awe - it was a particularly delightful smile, is what Sherlock knew: one that at once made him feel as if he were five years old again, and had made Mycroft, and Mummy, and Daddy all impressed with his accomplishments, and also as if he were about 10 feet tall, and master of all that mattered ( _not_ the British Government, as if that mattered).

That smile - well, Sherlock didn't live for it, precisely; he lived for the puzzles the solving of which brought on that smile ( _he hadn't solved a puzzle just now, why the smile_ ) but the smile made everything better, more worthwhile somehow, and Sherlock didn't want ever to have to be without that smile - the potential of that smile; and hard on the heels of that realisation came another - that he didn't want to be without the John that came with the smile - the smile itself wasn't enough, he wanted John, and John there always, smile or no smile.

Then Sherlock and John were standing next to each other, their fingertips reached and touched the other's, intertwined; then they were holding hands. Then the woman in pink was standing near them, smiling (a dim idiot smile of patronising pleasure, disgusting to use even the same noun to describe it as the perfect joy that was on John's countenance), holding a book (wrapped in a pink leather binding), speaking words of a common ceremony, obtaining the concurrence of both (and there was John's smile again, at these simple words of a simple ritual that any half-wit or even lack-wit could say or participate in, so the wonderment and joy and yes, now he can say it, now he knows - the love in that smile is not due to any amazing talent or achievement of his, but Sherlock discovers he doesn't mind this in the least; the smile is no less extraordinary for it occurring in such ordinary circumstances); and asking for their signatures.

And now it was done; he and John were married - united - partners in all ways; and it no longer mattered about Mycroft's evil smug smiling fat face; nor did the tackiness of the whole event - crowned by music played from pink phones in the hands of all the guests - none of it mattered, because John was his now; had agreed - willingly and whole-heartedly agreed - to be his, would be at his side now _always_.

Mummy hugged him and he was laughing and smiling and blushing, and he shook Mycroft's hand (although he wouldn't _thank_ him, the arse, he didn't need to thank him, he and John would have got 'round to it eventually, or John would have been there with him always anyway, without all this idiotic rigamarole), and he shook Lestrade's hand, and Sally's, and everyone else's, and he felt such joy - and more than that, he felt a kind of happy settled contentment that he'd never felt before, as if all would now always be right in his world, even if there were no more interesting crimes or puzzles to solve, or he never solved one again, or he got bored beyond belief - as if nothing like that could happen again, or it wouldn't matter if it did, which was all patently absurd, of course. A few spoken words and a couple of signatures didn't _change your life_. 

John simply enjoyed the pleasure and love without second-guessing or over-analysing it. He enjoyed the enjoyment of his friends and acquaintances, and Harry's even. He enjoyed their best wishes and congratulations, and even their side-long glances, puzzlement, and slight shakes of the head when they thought he wasn't looking. He enjoyed his own enjoyment and most of all he enjoyed Sherlock's. He'd seen Sherlock joyful before, even happy, but never at the same time so _relaxed_. Pleasure without the excitement and stress of _the game is on_. And the expression on Sherlock's face whenever he glanced at John - it had all the pleasure reserved for when John had made a particularly clever remark, or complimented Sherlock, along with a hint of wonderment - as if John himself were something incredible that Sherlock was amazed to have. John enjoyed it all. He knew no matter about today or tonight, tomorrow he would wake up and still have the world's only - and most annoying - consulting detective for a flatmate.

But now - food. And drink. And laughter and more food and more drink. Pink lemonade, pink punch, pink champagne, it was all good. John was comfortably full and comfortably buzzed when the pink lady - the living pink lady - insisted it was time for he and Sherlock to cut the cake. The Cake. Fortunately she guided them on how to do this because John, surgeon though he was, would have had no idea how to go about dissecting such a thing.

His hand and Sherlock's slid the knife through the beehive, and they discovered why it jiggled so oddly: inside was not cake but honey. A dense thick intense fudge-like nearly cake-like honey. Honey.

'Now feed it to each other, dears!' called Mummy, echoed by many of the others. John looked about for a way to serve it - how do you eat a honey not-cake? - but Sherlock was already raising a glob to his mouth. Just as he opened his lips to accept the bite John inhaled. The intense flavor tickled his nose and he sneezed. Landing his face into Sherlock's hand, into the honey. Which naturally ended up filling his nostrils as well as his mouth.

John raised his face, covering it with his hands, coughing and spluttering and laughing and trying to breathe. He saw Sherlock first concerned, then mortified, then finally - Oh God he had on his amused _snarky_ expression. "Really, John, I know I have frequently observed that you are an idiot like every-" whatever witticism Sherlock was prepared to utter it was lost to the world as John had thrust a handful of honey confection into Sherlock's face, insuring that at least some would go up the man's long snooty nose.

Sherlock was shocked, but the room, having tried terribly painfully hard to stifle its giggles and save the (pitiful) remainder of John's dignity, now burst fully into laughter. John was red-faced under the dripping honey and laughing and so _happy_ and Sherlock had to smile too. Plus, the honey was rather amazingly good - interesting texture and flavour - were those hints of tarragon? He began to sample more of it and called out to the room, "Just for that, no cake for any of you!"

The party continued until late in the evening, even after the couple it honoured had left, sneaking out (do not ask how) the Honey-Cake, which true to his word Sherlock refused to share. Even with Mycroft. Especially with Mycroft.


End file.
